


Mark My Skin

by RedEris



Series: Mark My Skin 'Verse [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: (past: as seen in canon), First Kiss, M/M, Past Sexual Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21780991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedEris/pseuds/RedEris
Summary: In the Deep Roads, there's little to distract Alistair's wandering mind but his companions. His curiosity leads him to Zevran's tattoos, and then the more dangerous territory of Zevran's past. Rooted in and expanding from the famous cut tattoo banters.
Relationships: Alistair/Zevran Arainai
Series: Mark My Skin 'Verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1605022
Comments: 84
Kudos: 101





	1. Deep Roads

**Author's Note:**

> This fic starts as an experiment in weaving canon banters into a larger narrative, and a big chunk of the first half of this chapter is heavily canon banters--both those between Alistair and Zevran and the one between Zevran and Morrigan. Other things mentions are drawn directly from other banters between the two. Essentially I'm taking the pieces already given to argue my point, as it were. Surprisingly fun. If I've done my job right, you won't know whether it's me or David Gaider (who wrote both men) being clever. Awkward.

The fire pushed back the stygian darkness of the Deep Roads and took the edge off the perpetual chill. It threw golden light onto Zevran, and danced over his curves and angles. Alistair watched out of the corner of his eye as Zevran ran a damp rag over his skin and then added more water from his canteen. Harper Amell and the other companions were indistinct lumps under their blankets, the foul smelling dwarf they’d recently acquired snoring mightily.

“So those...designs you have all over your back…” Alistair started, not sure where he was going.

Zevran glanced over. “They are called tattoos. And I have them in many more places than just on my back, my friend.” Zevran twisted to bring more of said back into the firelight, and the tattoos twisted with him.

“Err...right.” Alistair refrained from trying to interpret that. “I hear that someone gets those by having needles put the ink under your skin?”

“A great many needles, among other things. Yes, that would be true.”

“Other...things…” Alistair mumbled, and then shook his head once. “Didn’t that hurt?”

“Oh yes, yes. But it is not so bad, in truth. If you like, I could give you one. I learned a bit of the art myself in Antiva.”

“Oh, no. No, I don’t think so.” 

“Come, it will just be a small one!” Zevran smiled the smile that Alistair was fairly sure was mocking him. “Perhaps the symbol of the Grey Wardens? Something manly! Where are my needles?” He turned to his pack.

Alistair’s cheeks burned. “Um! Maybe some...other time. I really have to uh...sleep now. Got to get that beauty sleep.”

Zevran’s smile broadened to a grin. “As you wish, my friend.”

Alistair pulled the blanket over his head. It itched against his cheek.

He wondered if Zevran really did have the needles in his pack. Didn’t seem likely to come in all that handy in the Deep Roads.

*

The tunnels had opened out a few minutes back into a space that, by the echoes, must be vast. Harper’s ball of spirit light couldn’t push the darkness back to the edges. Moving through dark, echoing void got dull after a while--Alistair kept his hand on his sword, but his mind wandered. Making a decision, he dropped back a bit, leaving Wynne to Oghren’s mercies with only a little guilt.

"Zevran? I've been thinking about those ink drawings, what did you call them? Tattoos? Are you... still willing to do one?"

“Oh-ho! You've decided to take the plunge, have you? What is a little pain, am I right?” 

Alistair waved his free hand dismissively. “I'm not worried about that. I think they look interesting. Though I'd want mine... smaller.” Zevran nodded, though in the eternal shadow it was hard to read his face. Alistair took a steadying breath. “When can you do it?”

Zevran laughed lightly. “Not so fast, my friend. There is an entire ritual to how this is done, do you not know? First I need to bathe you in a mixture of olives and rosewater.”

“You need to... bathe me? That seems... odd.”

“No, no, no, not at all. It needs to be worked into your skin, preparing it to receive the ink. The massage is quite pleasurable, do not worry. You are in good hands.” The way Zevran drew out the word ‘pleasurable’ made Alistair’s shoulders tense.

“The... massage?” Wait, he knew this trap. He’d fallen into it far too many times. “You're... having me on, aren't you?”

“I might be. I might not be.” Zevran shrugged. “Shall I describe the rest of the ritual to you?”

“Wynne is right--you can’t be serious about anything. Now you’re just teasing me, and I WAS serious.”

“Ah, were you?” Zevran was definitely smiling now. “If I were to submit the question to Wynne’s wisdom and authority, would she say that you are known for your seriousness and sincerity?”

Alistair felt the conversation had gotten away from him again. “Well, uh...probably not, no.”

“So you have, from time to time, engaged in a little lighthearted teasing and humorous deflection?”

“Well sure!” Alistair burst out. “It’s so much easier if no one takes you seriously!”

Zevran grinned broadly. Alistair snapped his mouth shut and squinted hard at Zevran.

*

Alistair had been thinking. And as one brother in particular at the monastery had been fond of repeating, nothing good ever came of that.

“Zevran…”

Zevran jerked his head to tug the end of the dressing he was replacing on his arm tight, and spat it out. “Yes?”

“You said the Crows choose who they send on a contract.”

“I did.”

“So…” Alistair looked down, ostentatiously leaning in and using a fingernail to dig at a bit of dried blood in his sword hilt. “Why would they send you?”

Zevran tucked the dressing’s ends under and pressed a wrinkle flat. “Is there some reason why they should not?”

“Plenty of reasons,” Alistair replied. “Starting with the fact that you weren't exactly the best they had, were you?”

Zevran didn’t go for the bait. “Slander and lies. For shame, Alistair.”

"I'm not an idiot. Well, not most of the time,” Alistair amended. “You're no raw recruit, but I've seen you fight. You're no master of combat, by any means.”

“Assuming that I intended a fair fight, that would indeed be a problem. But the Crows did not show any particular interest in such knightly virtue during my training.”

“But the Crows must have master assassins, the way you describe them,” Alistair persisted. “Men with years and years of experience. Why not send them?”

“Why not, indeed? It is a mystery for the ages.”

“Oh, I get it. You're not going to tell me.”

“Morrigan said you were sharp. No liar, she.”

Alistair laughed harshly. “Morrigan never said that. She thinks I’m dim.”

Zevran glanced up from stowing his wound kit and winked--suggestively. Everything he did was suggestive, as far as Alistar could tell.

“I might be persuaded to confide more to someone with whom I was more...intimately acquainted. But naturally you are not interested.”

Alistair felt his face blaze up, and was grateful for the dark and firelight. He took the hint, and let it drop.

*

The next morning--or whatever it was; who could tell down here--Alistair was unusually silent as they worked their way ever deeper into this claustrophobic nightmare of tunnels and caverns.

“Still with the stern glances, Alistair?”

Caught, Alistair jerked his eyes away from Zevran’s profile. “Well, I still want an answer. About why the Crows wouldn't send their best man.”

“So for that I must suffer all these fearsome glares? You are cruel to subject me to such torture.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’re in agony. It’s just...if you aren't telling me, there must be a reason.”

“If you must know,” Zevran said, “the masters do not often take contracts outside Antiva. And I made the best bid.”

“Best... bid?”

“We agree to pay the guild a portion of whatever the contract offers. The one who agrees to pay the most gets the contract, so long as the guild deems them worthy.”

“And they thought you were worthy?”

“Against a pair of Grey Warden recruits? Apparently so.”

Alistair thought that maybe if it had really only been him and Harper, Zevran’s ambush would have had a better chance, but then he’d had warning that they’d gained more fighters. That was another thing he thought about--why Zevran had taken that kind of chance.

But he wouldn’t let himself get distracted. He had the bit between his teeth this time. “Were there many who wanted the contract?”

“None,” Zevran answered.  
“None?”

“You are still Grey Wardens, after all, and even in Antiva, killing members of your order is considered... impolitic. It made the guild's decision considerably easier, I imagine.”

“Well that's comforting, somehow.” Alistair snorted. Then a whisper in the back of his mind brought him up short.

“Harper,” he called forward. The other Warden froze, swiveling her head blindly as if listening.

“I feel them too,” she confirmed. “Get ready. Zev, Wynne, Morrigan--”

“Yes, yes, stay back if we can; I have not yet turned senile,” Morrigan replied.

Alistair heard the rasp of metal on stone from his left, and drew his sword, shifting so that Zevran was behind him.

*

There were only six darkspawn this time, but Alistair stumbled over a loose rock at exactly the wrong moment and took a clean hit to the helmet from a hurlock. Zevran took it down before Alistair’s vision cleared, but afterwards Harper declared a stop, and Wynne confined Alistair to his bedroll for a couple hour’s rest. Naturally, he couldn’t sleep, and was feeling rather grumpy about the whole business.

The rise and fall of voices caught his attention.

“Are you truly so unafraid of the Crows as you pretend?” Morrigan asked.

“Are you still on about this, woman?” Zevran replied.

“I invite you to call me ‘woman’ again and see what happens. Answer the question.”

Oghren chuckled. “Sure look like a woman to me.” Morrigan made a noise of disgust.

There was a brief silence in which all Alistair could hear was the shuffling of moving bodies and someone sharpening a blade.

“I think of it more as my desire to leave the Crows far exceeds the fear I possess of them.”

“You think the Grey Wardens will give you safe harbor once all this is done. Surely you are not so naive.” At least Alistair wasn’t the only victim of Morrigan’s mockery. 

“I am willing to take my chances,” Zevran said.

“And if you are wrong?”

Zevran made a noise that might barely have been a laugh. Alistair took a chance and pretended to have an itch, flopping over in his ‘sleep’ so that he could just see Zevran’s face through the crook of his elbow.

“Then I will be dead,” said Zevran. “One does not do what I do and fear death so very greatly.”

Morrigan’s lip curled. “There are fates worse than death.”

Morrigan was not looking at Zevran, and so did not see the flash of something Alistair could not identify, something raw and cutting, that crossed Zevran’s face. Only Alistair saw it.

But Zevran’s voice was as smooth as ever when he replied. “And one of them is being unable to choose which master you serve. Trust me, my dear, I am well pleased with my current direction.”

Morrigan scoffed. “On your head be it, then.” She rose and turned toward the privy pit.

Alistair watched Zevran’s face for a few more minutes, but _that_ face didn’t show itself again. Finally, he drifted off.

*

“You said no one else bid on Loghain’s contract.”

“Brasca! Are all Fereldans as stubborn as their dogs?”

“Even if it’s only me, you still might as well answer, because I’m the Fereldan that’s here.”

“Very well then, yes, I did say that.” Zevran narrowed his eyes at Alistair repressively, but Alistair had never been one to quit while he was ahead.

“And you meant it,” he said, “because it wasn’t there to make me squirm. I told you, I’m not stupid, I do catch on eventually.”

“An interesting theory. Why have you not yet tired of this line of inquiry?”

“I’m not inquiring about anything. I’m not done. No one else bid on the contract. So it was a shit contract. Why?”

“Because Ferelden is a cold, muddy place full of dogs and prudes,” Zevran snapped. “But me, I find the thought of corrupting handsome barbarian prudes terribly appealing. All that muscle going to waste. So I thought to myself--”

“Shut up, you’re not derailing me with that stuff this time. Besides, it was a rhetorical why. The contract was lousy because Ferelden is a cold muddy dog country--you said!--and because no one wanted to take a contract against Grey Wardens. You already said. But the question is why did _you_ take the shitty contract.”

“A poor decision, clearly! One of many!” Zevran snapped. “Perhaps I am simply stupid.”

“No you’re not,” Alistair said, hard on the tail of something important. “But you talk too much.”

“It has been said, yes.”

“Then just listen!”

“I tire of this conversation!” Zevran sped up his steps, but Alistair’s longer legs easily kept pace.

“No one else wanted the contract.” Alistair’s words tumbled over themselves racing after the answer. “Not even assassins who were better than you. You didn’t even have the experience to pull it off, city boy, and since you _aren’t_ stupid you had to know that, too.”

“Or I _am_ stupid and this entire conversation is pointless!”

“Nope, you knew it, and you took it anyway. Because you wanted to get away. Because they _make_ you kill people. You kill people and then you go to a chantry and ask for forgiveness and then you kill people again--and, and you _sleep_ with them, I bet they make you sleep with them--because if you don’t the Crows will kill you!

“You’re not free! They bought you! You act proud but you didn’t choose this. So you took a shitty contract in a muddy dog country that you weren’t qualified for. And...and I dunno, maybe you meant us to catch you, you thought Grey Wardens would be enough to protect you, if even the Crows stay away from us.”

Alistair frowned. “But no, that doesn’t make sense. The only reason we didn’t kill you is because Harper is daft on second chances. You couldn’t have anticipated that.” 

Alistair chewed his lip for a second, ignoring Zevran’s venomous glare. 

“No, you had to have known you’d probably die,” Alistair went on. “But you did it anyway! Because...because…_aach_” Alistair froze. “Because _you thought the only way to get away was to die_!”

Both of them stilled, staring at each other. Alistair’s bubble of triumph burst and drained away, leaving him cold.

“You took the contract because you wanted to die.”

Zevran spat on the ground next to Alistair’s foot, and turned on his heel. This time Alistair let him go.

*

Alistair was quiet for the rest of the day. Zevran, on the other hand, was everywhere that Alistair wasn’t, flirting and gibing and sparkling, entirely as if nothing had happened. But Alistair supposed that maybe that was the point. Because he hadn’t been wrong. He was sure of it now. He’d been awful, but not wrong.

He’d been right, and it changed everything. Zevran hadn’t exactly hidden it, but he’d never said the word--slave. He’d been a Crow, an assassin, full of brag and seduction. But that was the word. Slave. Alistair couldn’t process it. Being forced to kill people was almost easier to understand than being forced to seduce them and then kill them.

Alistair had killed people. It had been unpleasant, but in the end he didn’t feel like anyone he’d killed yet had really given him a choice. And it had never been so grotesquely...personal. 

Zevran hadn’t had a choice-- either kill, or be killed. But it was the gap between victim and killer that made the difference. What would it be like to be forced to kill innocent people? Well, you’d say what Zevran did, Alistair guessed--they weren’t really innocent, or no one would want to kill them.

But seeing as Alistair had been one of the potential victims, it was pretty hard to see it that way. Pretty hard for Zevran, too. But it wasn’t the people Zevran had to kill that were a threat to his life. It was the people who should have taken care of him.

So now Alistair knew that all that brag, all that flash, that was hollow, and the tiny flash of rage and desperation, that was the truth. And he didn’t know what to do with that, and Zevran hated him for it. Alistair didn’t blame him at all. He’d had no right.

*

Dinner was a cold and uncheery meal of hard biscuit and leftover deepstalker. The overpowering flavor of smoke did not drown out the overpowering flavor of nasty cave lizard-rat. Alistair had hoped to bury his shame under a blanket and be unconscious for a while, but Harper was watching him with too-knowing eyes.

“According to the map, we’re getting really close to Caridin’s Cross,” she said. “I want us fresh, but time’s a-passin’. We’re only going to rest for a few hours. Alistair and Zevran, first watch. I’ll take second with Morrigan. Wake me when the first torch dies.”

Alistair grunted acknowledgment; Zevran just nodded.

Neither of them said more than that for a long time. Alistair did his best to look utterly engrossed by scrubbing rust off his armor, which was probably a pathetic effort, as he’d made rather a vocal thing out of hating the task. Whenever Alistair snuck a look, Zevran was sitting, hands clasped, eyes on the darkness.

“So uh.” Alistair spoke quietly, so as not to disturb the sleepers. “So I’m sorry.”

“I have no use for your pity.” Zevran didn’t look at him.

“No, not--dammit, I mean, I’m _sorry_ for being an ass. Though if you’re going to be like that, I don’t see why I can’t pity you. Seems like you got dealt a really shit hand.”

“But the game I played was my own, yes? Assassin--murderer, you would call it, surely? I could have chosen otherwise.”

“Well I mean...not really, right? What, you could have just died? I don’t see how that’s a real choice. But that’s not--never mind. I just meant I was sorry for prying.”

Zevran studied him silently.

“Look, if you like, you can...you can tattoo on my face. Say, ‘Nosey Idiot’.” Alistair swept a hand across his forehead.

That made Zevran snort, and Alistair smiled, encouraged. “‘Thinks with his mouth open’, maybe. Or right here--” he jabbed his own cheek, “--put a little arrow here, says ‘flies enter here.’”

Zevran chuckled. “Ficcanaso.”

Alistair raised an eyebrow inquiringly. 

“Hmmm,” said Zevran. “I think it is close to ‘pokes the nose’? Busybody.”

“That’s fair. Alright, get out the needles.”

That got a genuine smile. “Alas, I do not in fact have them with me. But I will not forget.”


	2. The Brecilian Forest

After that last quiet respite, things got messy in Caridin’s Cross. Really, really messy. Alistair was pretty sure that Hespith and the brood mother were going to feature in his nightmares for a long time to come. In Orzammar, nothing seemed like a good choice, nothing was clean. Alistair was indecently relieved when the doors of Orzammar shut behind them.

The trip cross-country to the Brecilian forest was long, and Alistair spent more of it than he could fully account for watching Zevran. Evaluating what he did with new eyes, re-evaluating what he’d done before. There had been, he realized, an awful lot he’d judged harshly and probably wrongly.

Harper had bargained hard for a fleeing farmer’s breeding stock of Fereldan Forders, and so now they were all riding east--with varying degrees of success. Only Leliana, as it turned out, had actual recent experience riding. Harper had had to bring her stirrups up nearly as high as Oghren’s, and both looked comically short as they rolled ungracefully around in the saddle. Morrigan seemed to know more or less what she was doing, but distrusted her mare, who returned the favor with interest. Zevran had, he said, not had much cause to ride before, but was learning with surprising grace. Alistair was doing much better than he’d expected. Distant memories of Master Dennet’s stern lessons, back when he was a snot-nosed kid who slept in the kennels, came back quickly once he felt the horse move under him. He did best when he wasn’t paying attention.

Everyone was spending a lot of time figuring out how to manage their horses, so conversation was less frequent. Alistair perked up when he heard Wynne’s voice behind him.

“Have you changed your mind yet? Are you willing to speak seriously?”

Alistair glanced back, desperately trying to remember what he was meant to be serious about, but Wynne was looking at Zevran.

Zevran leered. “Of your bosom? As you wish.” Alistair managed to turn a snort of mirth into a cough.

Wynne scowled. “No, I do not wish to speak of my bosom.”

“But it is a marvelous bosom. I have seen women half your age who have not held up half so well. Perhaps it is a magical bosom?”

“Stop talking about my bosom.”

“But I thought you wished to speak seriously?” Alistair wished that he could watch their faces, but he could picture Zevran’s look of exaggerated innocence pretty well by now.

“I do!” Wynne snapped. “I thought, however foolishly, that you might be willing to speak of your past.”

“We could do that. There have been many bosoms in my past, though only a few as fine as yours.”

Wynne sighed gustily, and for a moment Alistair thought that Zevran had managed it, and she would leave him alone. But after counting to ten or whatever it was that Wynne thought about to keep from strangling people, she tried again.

“You know as well as I do that I am referring to your career as an assassin! You are not heartless, whatever you pretend. I am as convinced as ever that, deep down, you regret the life you have led. I could help you. We cannot properly repent our crimes if we do not acknowledge them.”

Suddenly, Alistair was angry. Hot, bright anger.

“He didn’t ask for help, you know.”

“Pardon me, dear?” Wynne said, looking forward as Alistair reined his stallion back. Zevran looked as surprised as she did. Alistair was surprised himself, but he kept going, still filled with the angry heat.

“Can’t you see he doesn’t want to talk about it?”

“Well yes! Very plainly! But someone needs to help him confront his misdeeds if--”

“They’re not _his_ misdeeds!” Alistair half-yelled, and then shut his mouth with a snap as he realized he couldn’t explain that statement without saying exactly what Zevran hadn’t wanted to say. His eyes flew to Zevran’s face, which was almost blank, save a slight widening of the eyes. “That’s...I mean.” Alistair cleared his throat. “I just think that if he doesn’t want to talk about it, I guess that’s his business.”

Wynne was looking at him as if he’d grown another head. His face blazed as all his righteous anger abandoned him.

“There a problem?” Harper had managed to turn her horse and wobble back to them. Alistair must have been louder than he’d realized.

“Not at all,” Wynne said immediately. “Alistair has simply made a point I shall have to consider. We’re all quite well, I’m sure.”

“Indeed,” Zevran put in. “We were discussing the excellence of Wynne’s bosom, and Alistair here quite rightly objected to her efforts to change the subject.”

“I! I was not--I didn’t--I never said anything about Wynne’s…” Alistair shook his head frantically. Harper squinted nearsightedly at them.

“Well, they are really good boobs,” she said, shrugging. “The girls and I used to try to find out if there was a spell she knew or something. And Wynne, if there really is a spell I fully expect you to share it. These puppies are going straight south.”

Zevran grinned broadly, Alistair inhaled his own spit and started coughing, and Wynne sighed very deeply.

*

Going got slower as they left behind the spaces humans had shaped and pushed past the fringes of the Brecilian. After a rough day of working around gullies, sudden drops, and tangled underbrush, Harper sent Oghren, Sten, and Morrigan back to the last farmstead they’d passed with the horses, and the rest went ahead on foot.

Personally, Alistair suspected that the horse watchers had been selected because they were the most likely to piss off the Dalish, assuming they ever managed to find them. Certainly Alistair found the fire that night more convivial.

Everyone was gathered close over the small flame, which was limited by a lack of fuel. Strange, in a forest, but this was not like the forests Alistair had seen. It… watched you. Cutting trees hadn’t felt right, and anything that lay on the ground for long grew damp and mossy. Harper had decided that it was better to keep a small fire than to be separated searching further for recent deadfall.

“So, what do we know about the Dalish?” Harper asked. “All I’ve got is from Genitivi. I certainly hope we don’t end up hanging in the trees like he did.”

“Trees?!” Alistair looked around nervously.

“It is said that some clans are more combative than others,” Wynne said. “Let us hope that those we seek are more open to human contact.”

“My mother was Dalish,” Zevran said. Alistair blinked. “Or so I was told,” Zevran amended. 

“What, you don’t know?” Alistair regretted the words immediately, but before he could sort out how to fix it, Zevran answered.

“She died giving birth to me. My first victim, you might say.” This last was directed at Wynne, who pursed her lips.

“I’m sorry,” Alistair managed. “Mine too, actually.”

“Another excellent reason to stay away from dicks,” Harper said. “Sorry to both of you, though. Go on, Zevran.”

“In the tale I was told, she fell in love with an elven woodcutter and accompanied him back to the city, leaving her clan for good. And then, of course, the woodcutter died of some filthy disease, and my mother was forced into prostitution to pay off his debts. Oldest tale in the book.”

“But that’s terrible!” Wynne exclaimed.

“Is it?” Zevran shrugged carelessly. “It seemed a normal enough tale growing up--not so different from the other elven boys in the whorehouse.”

“Look, I think it’s pretty clear that nobody here exactly had an ideal childhood, whatever that even is,” Harper said. “Unless...Leliana?”

“My mother died when I was four,” Leliana said.

“There we go!” Harper snorted. “What a great sharing time we’ve had! The point, though, is what we know about the Dalish. Zev?”

“My original point,” Zevran said, “is that my mother’s Dalish nature was always a point of fascination to me. When I was still young, I heard tales that one of their clans had drawn near to Antiva City, and I ran off to join them.” He laughed, but Alistair thought it a very bitter laugh. “Suffice to say that it did not live up to my boyhood dreams.”

“Yes, but what were they like?” Harper prompted.

“A trading outpost only. I did not see the families or children. Their goods were indeed beautiful, but as I was not yet a Crow, I had no money. They did not embrace me with open arms. I would not expect my elven face to gain you much with this clan.”

Harper sat back. “Well that stinks. Guess we’ll just have to take it as it comes. Get some sleep, everyone.” She stood up. “I’ll wake next watch when I’m ready.”

Alistair lay watching the embers die down for a while. Zevran was an indistinct shape on the ground next to him.

“Psst,” he whispered. “Zevran. You awake?”

Zevran rolled over and blinked at him.

“Evidently. Did you need something?”

“Do you wish you’d met her? Your mother?”

Zevran didn’t respond right away. “When I was a child, yes.”

“I do. All I had of mine was an amulet that had been hers. When...when they told me I was being sent away, I threw a tantrum. Pitched it against the wall. Broke it. Stupid of me.”

Zevran hummed in sympathy. “Through all my years of Crow training, the one thing of my mother’s that I possessed was a pair of embroidered gloves. They were of Dalish make, I knew that much, and beautiful. I had to keep them hidden, of course, as we were not allowed such things. Eventually they were discovered and I never saw them again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It is as Harper said, yes? People such as you and I are not the product of happy lives of contentment.”

“I suppose. Still, I don’t see why they couldn’t let you keep them.”

“You should be glad to find that you do not think like a Crow master.” Zevran smiled. “Certainly I am.”

Alistair grunted. The last stick in the fire burned through and rolled over with a momentary burst of renewed flame. It flickered over Zevran’s high cheekbones.

“Anyway, good night,” Alistair said, unaccountably embarrassed.

“Good night, my friend.”

*

They found the Dalish, or rather, the Dalish found them. Zevran spotted them first, hissing Harper’s name and jerking his head at the forest. Alistair never even saw whatever Zevran had spotted.

The elves didn’t string them from the trees, but they weren’t exactly welcoming, either. In what was becoming a familiar pattern, things were not as they should be in the Brecilian, for reasons entirely besides the approaching Blight. Werewolves! Now there was a creature right out of stories meant to keep children in bed at night.

Zevran had been right--he was blindfolded and bundled along just like the human companions, offered no special recognition or allowances. Alistair didn’t know much about elves, but that surprised him. Surprised him, and planted a little ache in his chest, for a younger Zevran with hope in his eyes.

Zevran was unusually quiet in the Dalish camp, too. He stuck near to Harper. Alistair did as well, feeling huge, graceless, and intrusive. Alistair wasn’t sure whether they looked more like fearsome bodyguards or children hiding in their mother’s skirts.

In a quiet moment, Alistair reached out and touched Zevran's shoulder.

"Are you… Alright?"

Zevran's eyebrows wrinkled. "Is there reason I should not be?"

"No! I guess--I mean, I thought maybe all this would be bad memories."

Zevran glanced away, over the aravels and the playing children. "Your concern warms me. But I am not displeased by my current circumstances." Alistair couldn't read his face.

*

The deeper they went in the Brecilian, the more disturbing the place got. The forest itself was hostile. Paths doubled back and then disappeared. Ravines and massive dead trees blocked the way. And Alistair swore it wasn't just his imagination that roots were twisting to trip him up.

When Harper called a stop that evening, she split their party into groups of two to hunt and gather wood. No one was to be alone.

"In that case," Zevran said, "I claim the attention of this strapping young man. The perfect shoulders to carry all the wood we need."

Alistair was surprised, but followed Zevran readily.

"This place gives me the collywobbles," Alistair said. For some reason the forest demanded hushed voices.

"I am thinking it is a place to be polite to trees, yes?" Zevran's voice held a warning tone.

"Oh, uh… Yes, very big trees with lots of fantastic...umm…roots?" Alistair tried.

"Truly, you are a poet."

For a few minutes, they scavenged firewood in silence. Alistair was not good at silence.

"Zevran? Tell me another story about Antiva?"

There was a sharp crack as Zevran broke a branch to better fit his bundle, and then a pause.

"If you wish it, I will tell you a story which is not so cheering, but you once asked to know. I will tell you why I took the contract on your head."

"Oh!" Alistair stopped tugging at a branch tangled in vines. "I mean, only if you want. I mean, I'd like that, but not if… not if it hurts you."

"I think now I would like to tell it. You have been a good friend to me, after all. Though after, you may think better of the kindness you have shown me."

"I don't see how I could regret that, but all right."

Zevran gave him a look that Alistair thought fell somewhere between fond and exasperated--that was a familiar enough combination.

"To start at the beginning, then. I was purchased at the same time as many other young boys and girls, but Crow training is… not gentle. I and one other were the only to survive. That other was a man called Taliesin.

"To be truthful, by ourselves we were not the very best Crows. I believed we were, but I have been humbled since. Ah, but we were better together. Then the Masters introduced Rinna--Rinnala, her name was--to our duo, and we three became something special. Taliesin was always the strongest, I the best at seductions and poisons, but Rinna was the master planner.” He paused, and added in a near-whisper, “She made us more than we were."

Zevran was quiet for long enough that Alistair began to wonder if he would go on.

Then he looked up, and went on. "I have not told this part before. I beg your patience. The Masters kept us together, because we worked so well. In time, we three became lovers."

Alistair blinked at that. "What, all three of you at once?"

Zevran laughed at him. "At once, separately… Yes."

"So then… You and Rinna and Taliesin and Rinna and you and… and Taliesin?"

"Yes. Have I offended your Fereldan sensibilities?" Zevran was still laughing at him.

"No! No, I mean, I just… didn't think about it. I don't even… how does that even work?" His eyes flew open. "Don't answer that!"

Zevran winked. "A lesson for another time, perhaps. Shall I continue?"

Alistair, cheeks blazing against the cool evening air, nodded.

“My last mission in Antiva did not end well. The mission itself was quite successful; I mean that it did not end well for me.

“You must realize that until that day I was cocky and arrogant. I was the best Crow in Antiva, I believed, and I bragged of my conquests often...both as an assassin and lover.”

“Yes, totally different from now,” Alistair put in dryly.

“Ah, yes,” Zevran shot back. “But after all, I truly am very good. At any rate, one of the Crow Masters grew tired of my boasting. My bid for an incredibly difficult mark was accepted, much to my surprise. A wealthy merchant with many guards--the job to be completely silent. Taliesin agreed to be part of my team, as well as Rinna.

"Rinna was special. I had closed off my heart, I thought, but she touched something within me. It frightened me. When Taliesin revealed to me that Rinna had accepted a bribe from the merchant, told him of the plan...well. I readily agreed that she needed to pay the price. I allowed Taliesin to kill her.”

Alistair had never seen Zevran like this. His face was blank, his voice heavy, no trace of levity. Alistair felt the weight of it sink into his chest, hot and suffocating.

“She begged me not to. On her knees, with tears in her eyes, she told me that she loved me and had not betrayed us. And I? I laughed in her face and said that even if it were true I didn’t care.”

Zevran hardly looked like he remembered that Alistair was there, caught in the memory as he was. “Taliesin cut her throat, and I watched her bleed as she stared up at me. Spat on her for betraying the Crows.”

They stood quietly amid the night noises for a second before Zevran cleared his throat and went on, voice a little firmer. “When Taliesin and I finally assassinated the merchant, we found the true source of his information. Rinna had not betrayed us after all.”

“You couldn’t know,” Alistair offered, hollowly.

“Of course not!” Zevran snapped. “I didn’t care to know.” The self-loathing was palpable. 

“I...wanted to tell the Crows what we had done. Our mistake. Taliesin convinced me not to. That it would be a foolish waste. So we reported that Rinna had died in the attempt. We needn’t have bothered. The Crows knew what we had done. The Master who disliked me told me so to my face. He said the Crows knew, and they didn’t care. And one day my turn would come.”

“I’m...that’s awful. I can’t even imagine.” Alistair wanted to run away from the raw pain in Zevran’s eyes, wanted to reach out, wanted to throw up.

“I felt...empty. I felt as if I was nothing. I felt as if she had been nothing. You have said it yourself--what I wanted was to die. What better way than to throw myself at one of the fabled Grey Wardens?”

“And instead you got us,” Alistair chuckled weakly.

“Truly, not what I was expecting,” Zevran agreed. “But better, I think.”

“Is it? Are you um…” Alistair flapped his free hand irritably, searching for a word. “Better?”

Zevran smiled gently. “Whatever it was that I sought by leaving Antiva, I think I have found it. I owe Harper--and you--a great deal.”

Suddenly Alistair felt very hot. “Oh! Wood!” he exclaimed idiotically, and went back to wrenching on the tangled branch.

*

The forest and the werewolves fought them at every step but Alistair’s mind, true to form, found time to wander anyway. He was sure he _ought_ to be dwelling on how horrible it was that Zevran had let a woman he loved die in front of him, or what Zevran had admitted about his state of mind or...anything but what actually kept coming back to him.

Well, he _did_ think of those things. He thought about what it would be like to be that broken. Of whether you could come back from that, heal, be a good person. Of what, if anything, knowing all that meant to Alistair himself.

But the wildly inappropriate and totally irrelevant thing that really kept popping into his mind was the shadowy, unrealized image of Zevran tangled together with another man.

Zevran had said he liked men, had joked about it, but somehow Alistair had managed to write that off to...Zevran-ness. The thought that he’d actually _been_ with a man made Alistair hot and uncomfortable and--nope, definitely that was just uncomfortable.

And the damn man kept _doing_ things, distracting things. Alistair had noticed before, but now he couldn’t stop noticing. He noticed when Zevran did stretches in the morning-- complex stretches that went well beyond anything Alistair had been taught in templar training, and sometimes felt distinctly like something that should maybe be done in private. He noticed the way Zevran’s muscles flexed as he moved and climbed, and that cursed gappy skirt thing showing far more of his thighs than was sensible. Or decent. He noticed how full Zevran’s lips were, and how they moved when he laughed.

He noticed Zevran’s eyes--when he wasn’t laughing, when he was still. How they always moved. Always wary. How sometimes when the attention was elsewhere (except Alistair’s, which should have been elsewhere more often), Zevran’s face grew still and vacant, as though he were very far away. He noticed how fast the smile fell from Zevran’s face when people looked away, and he noticed when it lingered.

All in all, it was extremely confusing.

*

Once again, they’d survived. They’d survived werewolves and murderous trees and explored elven ruins and righted ancient wrongs. It had been distinctly hit-and-miss at some points, and Alistair had a couple new scars from injuries that had been sufficiently severe that Wynne’s healing had had to be rushed. So did Zevran, though, and Zevran was so much more vulnerable in his agonizingly inadequate bits of leather.

Harper had given them a full day of rest, in part because she was still having quite a lot of trouble processing everything that had come to her through the Soul Gem, though she refused to show it. It was unreal, watching her soft, round body moving so gracefully through fighting stances she definitely hadn’t known a week before. She hadn’t dared fight on the front lines yet, though, and Alistair would be happiest if she never did. It was his job to protect, his job to take the hits.

The Dalish clan’s craftsmen had made a little display of their crafts, in part as thanks for ending the werewolf curse. Alistair didn’t feel like much of a hero, getting their revered leader killed, but the crafts were every bit as lovely as Zevran had said. A lot of it wasn’t very relevant for him--bone needles, beautifully tooled knife sheaths, armor that was both too small and too light for his huge ungainly human body--but lovely nonetheless.

Alistair picked up an inlaid horn comb, thinking fondly of Harper’s unruly red curls. Maybe she could put it in her bun? He didn’t really know how these things worked. He slipped out of focus, slowly twirling the comb in his fingers, and when he shook his head to bring himself back, he was looking right at a pair of doeskin gloves. Fine-fingered, with long cuffs decorated with embroidery. 

He glanced around. There was Leliana, trying to sing along with an old man at the fire and laughing. Ah--Zevran was with Harper, talking to one of the herbalists. Alistair reached for the gloves. They were soft, amazingly supple. Thicker than he’d expected. The stitching was exquisitely tiny. The gloves were far too small for him, but he thought--

“Excuse me. Um. These gloves, do they fit you?”

The artisan looked up from her work. “Those? No. A bit too large.”

“Do you think, um, that they’d fit that man over there? The elf that came with us?”

“Hmmm.” The woman frowned. “He did come over and look at pouches. Didn’t buy anything, though.”

No, probably not, Alistair thought. Most of his money would have gone to replacing the leather cuirass that had gotten mauled in the fight against that Maker-damned arcane horror. Now there had been a bad few minutes.

The woman nodded to herself. “Only way to tell for sure is have him try them on. I think yes, though.”

Still thinking of the moment when Zevran had toppled back, and Alistair hadn’t known how deep the wound went, he decided.

“How much for these and the comb?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "My" Alistair--though naturally like everyone else I think my interpretation is true to canon--is, it should be remembered, above all awfully young. Nineteen-ish. Young, inexperienced, and with much work to be done yet in the self-image department (this is strongly linked to my interpretation of him as pretty classically ADHD). He is a good boy, and a smart boy, and definitely not always right, especially about himself. Of course, Zevran is too damn young for the shit he's been through, too.


	3. Denerim

A fire was crackling in the stone fireplace, the feather bed was covered in brocade, there was even an Antivan rug on the floor. Leaded glass windows shut out the damp Denerim night. Alistair had been given a room fitting his supposed station. The warmth didn’t reach inside him, though. Inside, everything was wet cobblestones and iron bars that sucked the warmth out of you.

“I still don’t understand,” he mourned. “I thought at least she’d want to know. I mean, wouldn’t you? Want to know you had a brother?”

Zevran, sprawled on the hearth rug, made a thoughtful sound. “I would, yes. But to me, this Goldanna is not so very hard to understand. I have known many like her.”

“Mean and money-grubbing?”

“Truly, but I was meaning angry, bitter. Callouses on their spirit from long years of little return on much effort.”

Alistair considered it, but it didn’t really put a dent in the pain. “I just...I thought…_family_. Isn’t family supposed to accept you unconditionally?”

“Not a subject on which I have much of use to contribute.” Zevran chuckled.

“No, I suppose not. I suppose none of us do, really,” Alistair murmured.

“But she is very stupid, this Goldanna.” Zevran said, sitting up in a single fluid movement. “She had only to greet you with some kindness, and she would be sister to a prince! Her fortune would be made. But she is too filled with anger. She believes that she has been robbed. By whom? A dead king? A baby? The Maker, perhaps? She is so sure you have been given what should have been hers.”

“Which I really haven’t, but how could I even tell her that now?” Alistair gestured around at the bed hangings, the carved furniture.

“But this even, this is not what you wished, yes?” There was no need to answer. Zevran was perfectly familiar with Alistair’s feelings about becoming king. 

“There is no one who will give us the life we want, Alistair. We make happiness of what we can, or we fail. We take what we want, or we fail. The Maker does not intervene.”

Something about that felt important, but thinking gave Alistair a headache. There had just been too much since they came to Denerim. First Loghain’s hateful face, then the crushing disappointment of Goldanna, and constantly the hovering weight of the crown.

“Do you know what I want, then?”

“Hmmm?”

“I want to get very very drunk.”

Zevran smiled broadly. “Now that, I expect we can accomplish.”

*

They started with the decanter of single-malt whiskey that had been left on a side table in Alistair’s room, though they ignored the pretty little Orlesian tumblers. The drink was a great deal stronger than most of what Alistair had been able to afford in the past few months, and the fire spread outward from his stomach embarrassingly quickly.

He became acutely aware of the warmth of Zevran’s fingers as they passed the bottle, the firelight gilding the long graceful line of Zevran’s ear. He should have known this would happen. But he was in for it now, so he took another swig. Too much. He coughed, then wheezed as Zevran laughingly clapped him on the back.

“It is not so bad, this,” Zevran said, downing his own mouthful without a blink. “You see, there are perhaps some things about being noble to be appreciated. This bed, for instance.” Zevran took a few quick, dancing steps and flipped into the bed, sinking into the feather tick. Half-rising, he grinned. “My bed, it is a little straw tick in a corner. I am told the steward is not fond of elves.”

The sight of Zevran sprawled across the bed punched Alistair in the chest. He wheezed and coughed, covering the moment with more whiskey. “Sleep in mine then. Too soft for me. I can sleep by the fire.”

“Ah, my knight. Come, bring the whiskey.” After all the flirting Zevran had done in the beginning, Alistair wondered how he could possibly fail to realize the effect he was having. Maybe he did realize. No, no. Alistair hadn’t said anything. He couldn’t know. Pure bad luck that Alistair was perching on the edge of the bed now while Zevran sprawled a foot away, cheeks flushed, lips wet from the decanter. When he passed it back, Alistair drained it. 

They both blinked mournfully at the empty decanter.

“Shall we go out, then?” Alistair said.

“Let us see what nights in Denerim have to offer!”

*

Alistair was hopelessly lost in Eamon’s palace, but Zevran was never lost. Down to the left, up a short set of stairs, past the sitting room (another sitting room?), down a much longer set of stairs… In the dining hall, they ran into Oghren, who had acquired a dusty bottle somewhere.

“Eyy,” Oghren slurred, already drunk. “Wherrr you two sneaking off to?”

“I’m not sneaking anywhere,” Alistair said, drawing himself up. “Didn’t you hear? I’m a prince now. I’ll go out if I please, at least.”

“Sure thing, princeling. Say, yer uncle has a good cellar.” Oghren gestured with the bottle.

“What have we here,” Zevran said, holding out his hand. Oghren handed him the bottle, and he sniffed carefully. His eyes flew wide and he reared back a bit. Alistair grabbed the bottle from his unresisting hand and sniffed too. His eyes watered. 

“Sweet Andraste, what is this poison?”

“Sissies. No appreciation. That’s Aqua Magus, that is.” Oghren grinned

“My friend, did you drink the first half of this bottle?” Zevran sounded concerned.

“Well I think I spilled some, but you know I did, elf.”

Alistair forgot what he was holding and took a swig. It tasted like death and lightning.

“Aqua Magus contains lyrium, yes?” Zevran asked.

“That’d explain the visions, then. Here, stop hogging, princeling.” Oghren punched Alistair in the kidney and reached up for the bottle. Alistair, who’d found the second swig less horrific than the first, swayed slightly and gave it back.

*

The first place they found, not too far from Eamon’s estate, boasted a doorman. The doorman referred to Zevran as Alistair’s manservant and directed him down a narrow hallway to a back room. Oghren belched deafeningly, Alistair referred to the doorman as a carrier of unmentionable diseases, and they left.

The second place smelled of beer and sweat, and Zevran declared it far more suitable.

Alistair signaled a tavern girl as she went past. “Three ales please.”

“Three?” Zevran laughed. “Are we drowning our woes, or toasting Goldanna’s health?”

“Good point.” Alistair raised his voice. “Sorry, make that a pitcher, would you please?”

The third place had dancing girls. It also had splintered tables and a smell Alistair was fairly sure was vomit, but Alistair had never encountered dancing girls. They weren’t wearing very much.

Zevran was watching the dancing girls. Ought to be watching him, Alistair decided, with the absolute conviction of the totally blitzed. Feeling warm all over, he threw his arm around Zevran’s shoulder. Friends touched each other, didn’t they? Of course they did. What had he been worried about? This was normal. This was nice. Zevran fit in the curve of his arm so nicely. Plus now Zevran wasn’t looking at the girls.

“Are you well, my friend?” he asked. His face was so close that Alistair could see the individual threads of gold in his irises.

“Never better,” Alistair declared, and then thought that had probably been a bit too loud. He focused harder on sounding like a normal human being. “You know what I think? You’re right. Goldanna was a fool. I’m delightful, and she’s going to miss out.”

“Damn straight, son. Don’t need that harpy hanging around.” Oghren slammed his fist on the table, sending ripples across Alistair’s drink. Zevran let out a small “oof” as Alistair accidentally squeezed him.

“I spend”--Alistair paused to empty his mug-- “too much time worrying about what everyone else wants.”

Oghren roared with laughter. Alistair didn’t think he’d been funny.

“Got that right, ye bootlicker. ‘Yes my lord. No, my lord.’”

“Heeyy! I’m not! I’m--Zevran, tell him I’m not a bootlicker.”

“Bootlicker? Hmmm,” Zevran looked thoughtful, which Alistair was fairly sure was insulting. “I think not. It is a term for blind obedience, yes? I believe you have your own convictions. I believe you could be pushed too far.”

“See?” Alistair crowed at Oghren. 

“But,” Zevran went on, “A king must put his own convictions first, and not wait to be told what he believes.”

“Wouldn’t Eamon be surprised,” Alistair crowed. “_He_ thinks I’ll just do as I’m told. Not that I’ve given him any reason to think otherwise,” he mumbled. “But I will, dammit! If they’re going to make me be king, I will be! Hah!” Oghren huzzahed, but Zevran looked much too thoughtful still. Alistair wanted him to smile.

“And as future king, I declare that I want that tattoo you promised me.”

Zevran’s eyebrows climbed. His face was _very_ close. His mouth was close, those full lips... “My friend, I do not intend to dissuade you, but you are very drunk.”

“Said I wanted it when I was sober, didn’t I? Now give it to me!” 

Across the table, Oghren inhaled his drink and started coughing violently. An unreadable expression crossed Zevran’s face. Alistair frowned in confusion.

“You heard the boy, elf! Give him what he wants!” Oghren cackled loudly. “Don’t make him beg.” Alistair transferred his frown to the dwarf. Zevran ignored him.

“This thing was already agreed upon, it is true. Were you thinking, perhaps, of ‘ficcanaso’? I have some design ideas to convey the idea clearly.” Zevran winked. Alistair growled and brought his free hand around to grapple, but Zevran deftly twisted free. He laughed, dancing out of reach. “No? Very well. But even I cannot produce tools by magic. Let us see what I can learn.” 

Alistair watched Zevran move through the tavern, integrating himself smoothly into first one and then another group with heavily tattooed men. Alistair experimented with following the conversation based on Zevran’s gestures, but got distracted by the expressive fluidity of them. Zevran must have said something witty, because the whole group laughed. Zevran’s face when he smiled was--

“Ancestors, son, you’re like a dog after a steak. Idea makes my ass pucker closed, but to each their own, they say.”

Alistair glanced askance at Oghren. “Dwarves have tattoos, too. Can’t be that shocking. I saw lots in Orzammar.”

“Tattoos!” Oghren’s eyes rolled wildly in his head and he roared with laughter. “Oh aye, I got some. Wanna see?” He stood up, tugging terrifyingly at his waistband, and Alistair sprang up and shoved him back down on his seat. 

“No! No, that’s quite alright!”

Zevran came to the rescue by returning, bouncing on the balls of his feet and smiling.

“By great good fortune, I have obtained directions to the shop of a local tattoo artist. If she can be persuaded to let me use her tools, we can proceed!”

*

The three of them blinked at the darkened storefront. The sign bore an image of a hand gripping a needle, airy spirals flowing from the needle’s tip. Definitely the right place.

“What time is it?” Alistair asked.

“Askin’ me?” Oghren snorted. “I can’t sort out this surfacer day nonsense--a month ago dinner time was pitch dark, now it’s light ‘til half past eight. I think yer makin it up as you go.”

“The bells rang not long ago,” Zevran said, “But I could not say how many times.”

“There’s a light upstairs,” Alistair said. Gathering his woozy resolve, he stepped forward and banged on the door.

“I’m not sure--” Zevran began, but whatever doubts he had, it was too late. A second storey window creaked open, and a head leaned out above them.

“Shop’s closed. Come back tomorrow.”

“But tomorrow they’ll make me do prince stuff, and also, I’ll most likely be sick then.”

The proprietor took a better look at them, and Alistair returned the favor. A dwarf woman, from the proportions. Short and stocky, and from this angle about half of her was heavily tattooed cleavage. 

“Seems likely, yeh. What’re you lot, a traveling act?”

“My good lady,” Zevran said, “we apologize for disturbing you at this hour, but our time is short, and we have an unusual request. Might we come in and discuss it?”

The woman drummed her fingers on the windowsill. “Well, bugger it, bound to be interesting at least. Hang on.”

A little while later, Zevran was concluding negotiations with the amused artist. At first, she’d objected pretty firmly to letting “a pair of drunk fools” use her equipment, but Zevran managed to persuade her that he was considerably less drunk than the other two. That, and the apparent persuasiveness of what she very insultingly referred to as “this great ox making cow eyes at me”.

Incredibly, Oghren had fallen asleep sprawled across a bench. Alistair was hunching awkwardly, trying to avoid the dozens of hanging belts and saddlebags and pouches that had obviously been arrayed by a dwarf. It appeared that Magda--that was her name--made most of her money tooling leather. If her craftsmanship with needles matched her skill with a leather punch, she did very fine work.

Magda and Zevran settled on a deal--contingent on her keeping an eye on Zevran’s work--and they handed over a significant pile of coins, and then she led the two of them upstairs. Tattoo work she did in her own living space, not the shop. Everything upstairs was short. Short bed. Short table. Short pegs on the walls. Short rocking chair in the corner. The one human-sized chair, long and strangely angled, stood out.

“Get your great ox sat down before he falls and crushes something,” Magda said. Then, “You’re absolutely sure he won’t give you grief in the morning?”

“Oi, I’m right here,” Alistair whined.

“He will have a great many more important things to worry about in the morning than my artistry, never fear,” Zevran said. He took Alistair’s arm and guided him to the human-sized chair.

“Again, I’m right here, and I thought that was the stuff we were not thinking about right now? I have ears.”

“Very fine ears when you use them.” Zevran settled over him, perched on a stool. “Now then, what are we decorating you with, and where?”

“A griffon,” Alistair said, immediately. “Over my heart.”

Alistair didn’t think he was imagining the fondness in Zevran’s smile. He hoped he wasn’t. What if he wasn’t?

“Naturally, my Warden.”

Alistair realized that he was no longer drunk enough for this. Not the tattoo, that was fine. But Zevran leaning over him, smiling gently, the lamplight in his eyes...oh, that he wasn’t ready to deal with at all.

“Off with your shirt, then.”

Alistair’s mind stumbled.

“Sorry, what?”

“Deplorably, we will have to skip the rosewater massage so as not to keep this kind lady up even longer,” Zevran said. Magda snorted. “But I truly cannot tattoo your chest with your shirt in the way.”

“_Right_. Right.” Alistair sat up, wrestling with the buttons of the damn stuffy doublet Eamon had made him wear. They were considerably trickier than they had been that morning, and it’d taken him two tries to button them straight then.

Zevran batted his hands away gently and began undoing buttons. Alistair swallowed hard.

“Far be it from me to complain that the man about to stab me with needles isn’t drunk, but why aren’t you?” Alistair asked.

“In my line of work, the penalty for not keeping your wits about you can be quite fatal.”

“Oh.” Alistair let Zevran help him out of the doublet, and then grabbed the hem of his shirt. “Oh, but, um. Wouldn’t that be true for me now, too? What if Loghain tries to have me killed again? I’ve been stupid again, haven’t I?”

Zevran’s gaze darted to the side, and Alistair abruptly remembered that they weren’t alone.

“Not at all, my friend. After all, you have me.”

Caught with his shirt half-off, one elbow above his ear, Alistair absorbed that. “Oh.”

Magda plunked a large box down on the table next to them, and did something to a decorative bit at the top. The front of the box fell open, revealing a collection of small drawers.

“Guess I’m making some interesting friends tonight,” she said. “Don’t worry, I’m just here to make sure nobody mangles anyone with my tools.”

Zevran pulled open a drawer, and then another. "Fine equipment," he said. "Better than I have used before." 

After a quick discussion of the equipment that Alistair didn't bother to follow, Magda retired to her rocking chair. Zevran began wiping Alistair's chest down with something that chilled the skin and smelled of cloves. 

Alistair doubted the wisdom of having Zevran work over his heart when he was pretty sure his whole chest was vibrating with the thumping. Which was more embarrassing--Zevran believing he was afraid of being poked with a little needle, or Zevran realizing that his hand-- resting forgotten on Alistair's stomach-- was making Alistair shake?

"How would you like the griffon to look? Shall I form it in your fascinating Fereldan style, or in some other fashion?"

"Oh, I don't know. You pick." Alistair took a deep breath and tried to relax. "I trust you."

The pain really was pretty insignificant compared to a few rounds of nearly dying. Not enough to distract him from the strangeness of the situation, the intimacy of Zevran working over him. At first Alistair babbled--when did he not? About Denerim and his childhood and anything that wasn’t here and now. He shifted, craning to see the work in progress, but got scolded for his efforts. Apparently “art must be made unobserved” or at least he guessed Zevran didn’t want Alistair peeking until it was done or something. But after a while, the lingering alcohol in his system hit the sleepy point, and he drifted.

The street outside had grown quiet. Oghren's snores rolled up the stairs, counterpointed by Magda's quieter ones where she dozed in her chair. The world was reduced to Alistair and Zevran and the circle of lamplight. It felt like waking up in the middle of the night at the monastery, wandering the stone halls alone with the echoes. He'd loved that stolen space outside of time, where no one had expectations and there were no demands. Freedom to just be Alistair.

This time, he wasn't alone, and it felt the same and different. 

He had to say something.

"Zevran?"

"Yes?" Zevran wiped the ink away from Alistair's skin and tilted his head, considering his work.

"Thank you."

"And what is it I am being thanked for?"

"The tattoo, for one."

"Perhaps we should save those thanks for when I am done, yes?"

Alistair winced slightly as Zevran began perforating his chest again.

"No, I trust you. What I really meant to say is just… Ah. Thank you for being here. With me."

"In the upper room of a leather goods shop." Zevran didn't take his eyes off his work, but he raised an expressive eyebrow.

"I'm trying to say something important and you're being deliberately thick!" Alistair stuck his lip out. Wasted effort; Zevran still didn't look.

"I? Never."

"Fine! I mean thank you for being with me--us. I know this is crazy but I'm glad you tried to kill us. Not because you tried to kill us, obviously. Because now you're here and I'm here and it's all a lot better with...with you. So there."

At last, Zevran looked up, absently letting his hand rest on Alistair's chest. Alistair could feel his heart thumping against it.

"Tread carefully, my friend. I might come to suspect that you care for me." The wording was light, but Zevran's face gave Alistair no clues.

Alistair could hardly breathe around the lump in his throat. "Well, maybe I do, then," he managed. "Fairly sure I do."

"Kings do not care for long-eared assassins,” Zevran said. Alistair thought, though, that his voice sounded strained. As if maybe he didn’t want to mean it.

"I thought you said that kings should do what they thought was right," Alistair whispered. 

"I say many things. I am no one to advise a king. I am no one." 

Zevran abruptly straightened up, patting Alistair's stomach briskly. "But there, I am distracted. I have only to finish this last curve, and the lines will be done. I think it best we save the shading for another day. You will rest and come to your senses."

Alistair got the hint. His whole body got it, starting with his gut, which contracted painfully.

"Don't do that!" he snapped, stopping Zevran's hand just above his skin. "Don't act like I don't know what I feel or what's good for me! Not you, too. Feel how you want, but I can't just be some cold statue with royal blood. I feel too much all the time! I can't be that!"

"Andraste forbid it," Zevran said, eyes suddenly burning. "Keep your passionate heart always and listen to what it says, and I will fight to see it so. I mean only--" he stopped, and closed his eyes for a second. "I mean only that late nights and drink produce a great many thoughts that do not hold up to sunlight. Tell me again in the morning, and I will believe you."

Alistair lay back with a grunt. He'd still care in the morning. 

And if Zevran didn't?

The needle touched his skin again. That momentary resistance, and then the point broke through, the pain sharp but small. Tiny stings, single points over and over, becoming a pattern in his skin. Zevran’s hand was sure and steady, his eyes fixed on his work, the rest of the world unimportant. Alistair held his tongue, thoughts tangled.

At last, Zevran gave the tattoo one final wipe and sat back to look at it.

“Very well, let us see what you think of it,” he said.

Alistair sat up and tucked his chin.

It was a griffon, certainly. But not just a griffon. Even just as lines, without the shading to give it depth and detail, it was perfectly clear what it was. There, the particular way the feathers fell. There, the place where Alistair had bent the corner of the shield in a fight and later straightened it out very inexpertly. Not just a griffon. Duncan’s shield.

Alistair’s eyes burned, and he sucked in a hard breath.

“It’s perfect, Zevran. Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These dorks have me by the hair and this fic is gonna need another chapter. Whoops.


	4. Stepping Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, it's stretched another chapter. I can end it any time I want, I swear. :|

The loud knocking woke Alistair bare seconds before the heavy bedroom door flew open. He rolled over, defensively pulling up his blanket, to see Harper in the doorway.

“Well! You certainly had a night," she said. Zevran sat up in the bed, and Harper looked between him and Alistair on the rug in front of the fireplace. “You do know that bed is the size of the tent you’ve been sharing, right? Didn’t they give you a room, Zev?”

Zevran was busy making climbing out of a heap of feathers look graceful. “Not so nice a one, I’m afraid. Alistair was kind enough to share.”

“Yeah, my room's not exactly up to this standard either. Private, though." She grinned in a way that implied things Alistair would rather not contemplate. "I hear you came back late. You going to be up to this politics bullshit today, Alistair?”

Alistair considered. He was a little under the weather, certainly, but by the time they’d gotten back to the palace, he’d been more tired than drunk. Zevran had given him something bitter in water, shoving the mug into his exhausted hands and insisting he drink before he fell asleep.

“Yes, actually," he replied. "Ready to destroy Loghain and stop the Blight. No trouble for us, right?”

Harper snorted. “They won't know what hit ‘em. See you at breakfast, and don’t be slow.”

The door closed behind her with a thud. Alistair looked at Zevran, and found Zevran looking back. 

"Whatever you made me drink last night, thank you. I deserve much worse than I've got."

"An all-purpose poison treatment. For buying time to determine a more specific antidote."

"Fascinating! I won't forget that one," said Alistair.

"And the tattoo? How does it feel?"

Alistair glanced at the neat bandage on his chest. "Oh, fine. Good. Umm…” He took a deep breath. “I have something for you."

Zevran looked more bemused than anything. Alistair rummaged through his pack. The gloves were a bit crumpled from being stuffed under his water jug and polishing kit. Guiltily, he tugged them straighter and folded them neatly before turning around.

“I saw these when we staying with the Dalish, and they made me think of you--well, of your mother. I guess I just wasn’t ready to...show that I cared. But I do. Care.” He gestured to the high window, letting a thread of sunlight in through feet of stone. “In the morning.”

Zevran studied his face very carefully before taking the gloves. Then, he studied the gloves, silent for so long that Alistair thought his heart would stop before Zevran spoke.

“Maker’s breath. You are right--they are like my mother’s. Not precisely, but very close.” He smoothed his finger over the embroidery on the cuff almost hesitantly, and finally looked back up at Alistair. “Do I seem surprised? Perhaps I am. No one has simply...given me a gift, before.”

“They should have,” Alistair said.

“You have proven yourself extraordinary in many ways before this, though. I should not be surprised. Alistair, would you...be displeased if I said I wished to kiss you?”

Alistair’s brain gibbered wildly. “No I’d be...I’d be uh...pretty pleased.”

Zevran reached up and cupped Alistair’s cheek with his free hand. The touch was so warm. Alistair’s chest was on fire. He leaned down as Zevran stretched up. Right before their lips met Alistair remembered that he didn’t know how to kiss and started to panic. But then Zevran’s lips brushed his, oh so softly, and it didn’t matter. His hands didn’t know where to go, but they ended up on Zevran’s back, feeling his muscles moving and shifting through the worn fabric of his tunic. His lips didn’t know what to do but they did what they wanted, pressing hungrily against Zevran’s. Zevran’s hand was on the back of his neck, pulling him down insistently.

When they parted again, Alistair found himself gasping for air.

There was something else he wanted to say. Something stronger than “I care about you”. But something about Zevran’s face warned him not to. Not yet.

*

When they walked into the dining room a few minutes later, Alistair was absolutely convinced that a single glance his way would show everything he’d just been doing. He tried desperately to match Zevran’s level of nonchalance, at the same time as he wished Zevran could look maybe just a _little_ bit flustered.

As things fell out, nobody really looked at him anyway, which was a much more usual sort of disappointment. Everyone was gathered at the end of the table, clumped around Eamon and an elven woman Alistair didn’t recognize.

“Ah, Alistair, at last,” Eamon said. “This is Erlina, Queen Anora’s handmaiden. She has come to us with troubling news.”

“Long story short,” Harper cut in, “Arl...Howe, you said?” The woman Eamon had introduced as Erlina nodded. “Right, Howe, who is apparently Arl of Denerim and Loghain’s new best friend or something, has locked the queen up at his place.”

“I think...her life is in danger,” Erlina said, her Orlesian accent reminding Alistair of Isolde. “I heard Howe say she would be a greater ally dead than alive. Especially if the death could be blamed on Arl Eamon.”

“Howe would kill Loghain’s own daughter?” Harper sounded skeptical.

Eamon sighed. “I’m not sure that’s a risk we can afford to take.”

“And what of the risk that this is a rather obvious trap?” Zevran put in. “Are we to march into our enemy’s stronghold on the word of this woman?”

Harper snorted. “Trust me, Zev, the idea isn’t thrilling me. Got any kind of proof, Erlina? Anything?”

“Only my sincerest assurances. My Lady, she is a threat to her father’s power. Were she to speak against him publicly, many in the Landsmeet would be swayed.”

“On the other hand,” said Eamon, “were she to disappear and the blame fall on us, our position would be untenable. I am afraid we must trust her.”

Harper got that set to her shoulders that said she was about to tell Eamon where to put his “musts”, but Wynne’s hand on her shoulder stopped her.

“What can we do?” Wynne addressed the question to Erlina.

“I have some uniforms,” Erlina began.

*  
It hadn’t been a good plan, nobody had been really happy about it, and this was how it ended. The five of them--Leliana, Alistair, Morrigan, Harper, and Anora--cornered by Ser Cauthrien and twelve guards. A single glance showed the guards better trained and equipped than most of those they’d dealt with so far. Anora carried her sword with familiarity, but who knew who she’d actually throw in with.

Ser Cauthrien’s words hung between them. “Wardens! Pretender! In the name of the Regent, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Rendon Howe and his men.”

She knew who he was. They’d had a good look at each other before, glaring over Eamon and Loghain’s shoulders. “Pretender”, that was him.

A quick glance showed that Harper was willing to try her chances, but the odds were too bad. It was just barely possible they could win, but the chance of losses was just too high. He knew what he had to do.

“Look, bitch,” Harper started, but she stopped and blinked at Alistair when he dropped a heavy hand on her shoulder.

“Let my people go free, and I’ll come without a fight,” he called, loud enough to carry across the hall.

“What the--” Harper stopped as he squeezed her shoulder hard. Quietly, pitched only for his ears, she hissed, “What the _fuck_ Alistair, I’m not letting them take you!”

“I’m under orders to arrest both Wardens,” Cauthrien called back.

“We’re going to lose people if we fight,” Alistair muttered to Harper. “They won’t leave without me, they know what I am. If they think you’re just followers they might let you go.”

“Damn it, Alistair,” Harper hissed, “I can’t just--”

“You’ll get me out.”

“Unless they kill you! _Damn_ it, don’t you dare!”

“Then you’ll still have Anora.” He shook her shoulder gently and turned back to Cauthrien, raising his voice again.

“This one’s only been a Warden for a few months. She follows me. If we fight, you’ll lose a lot of men. Just take me, you lose nothing. But I want to see them out the door safely.”

Ser Cauthrien considered. Harper shook under his hand, but held her tongue.

“Very well,” Cauthrien said.

*

He’d felt rather heroic then. In deep shit, obviously, but at least on his own terms. There was novelty to that. Now, the novelty had worn off, and it turned out that sometimes nobly sacrificing yourself for your friends was mainly just...boring.

No one had spoken to him or even come past since they made him strip and threw him in the cell. He thought the stripping part was really uncalled for, and the cell floor was much nastier than he liked to put his underclothed bum on.

“Oi!” he yelled, not for the first time. “You know, I’m very delicate! I might catch cold and die, and then where would you be?” He presumed they had some use for him, after all. Otherwise, why bother locking him up? Unless…”Can’t have a spectacular public execution with a corpse, you know! I’m very heavy, you’d never manage to make me look lifelike.” Nobody responded. 

“Look, at least give me my pants.” Nothing.

Alistair contemplated the grating in the corner and wondered how long it’d be before he had to pee badly enough to do it there. He sighed and let his head fall back against the wall.

*

“And there's Andraste's mabari,” he belted out, “by the Holy Prophet's side. In the fight against Tevinter, that dog would never hide.” He couldn’t remember the third verse properly, so he’d just been making up increasingly ridiculous things for the last three repetitions. “They say the Maker sent him special, always loyal, without pride--”

“Shut _up_”, a guard bellowed down the hall. Alistair smiled toothily.

“So he could be the sworn companion of the Maker's Holy Bride.”

“‘Draste’s ass, that’s it. Couldn’t pay me enough to listen to this again,” the unseen guard growled. There was the sound of a chair being pushed back, and something falling.

Alistair raised his voice, though it was already beginning to rasp in his throat. “Oh, that dog, he guards Andraste without arrogance or fear, only asking of his mistress--Oh, hello, come to sing with me?” A flicker of hope died when he saw that the vocal guard had brought friends. One, maybe, he could have handled, even barehanded. Three, one with his sword already drawn, not so much.

“Come on in, sit down!” He gestured grandly. “I’m afraid I haven’t got much to offer at the moment--ow! Rude!”

“Shut _up_. You fucking heard me.” The first guard drew back his foot for another kick, and Alistair scrambled to his feet.

“Not the face! I bruise easily!”

“This clown is supposed to be a prince?” The second guard stood back, weapon ready, but the third lined up a roundhouse Alistair didn’t want to land.

He dodge that one, and managed to turn the next kick into a glancing blow, but they had him down soon enough.

When they were done, he didn’t feel much like singing.

*

At last, Alistair fell asleep from sheer battered exhaustion, propped up against a corner with his knees against his chest for warmth. When Zevran brushed his cheek, he flinched violently. Zevran dodged his wild swing easily.

“Shhh, shh, caro, it is only me.”

“Zevran?” Alistair blinked up, trying to clear his vision. “If I’m dreaming and you’re a desire demon, I am about to fall.”

Zevran gave a pained smile and knelt next to Alistair. “I have caused many to fall, but only through mortal wiles.”

“Well, just in case, kiss me. I’d hate to miss out if this is just a dream.” Zevran let out a tense gasp of laughter and kissed him, hard and urgent. Alistair discovered that he had a badly split lip, but kissed back as best he could.

“That’s torn it. If this was a dream I don’t think I’d’ve gone to the trouble of making kissing hurt.”

Zevran made a little choking noise and kissed him again, on the cheek, on the forehead, over one eyelid. Then he stilled, and took a breath. When he spoke, it was all business, and Alistair could almost have convinced himself that he’d imagined the urgency of those kisses. 

“Excellent. Now that we have resolved that difficulty, let’s get you up and dressed.” Zevran got a shoulder under Alistair’s arm and lifted.

As he straightened up, Alistair hissed in pain.

“You are hurt. Who did this?”

“Just a little...light bruising. I annoyed the guards.” Alistair started to grin, but winced instead.

Zevran made a noise of disgust. “I killed them too quickly.”

“Oh.” Of course they were dead. What else would Zevran have done with them? “Eh. They didn’t like my singing, so good riddance.”

The guards were so completely and efficiently dead that two of them were still in their seats, their game of knucklebones undisturbed. It occurred to Alistair, distantly, that in fact assassination and pitched fighting really were very different things and he had probably been a bit unfair about Zevran’s skills. Zevran toed one of them over, got Alistair settled in the vacated chair, and began efficiently stripping the largest guard.

“Where are the others? Maker forfend I complain, but is it just you?”

“The others are waiting outside. I would not leave your safety to amateurs again.” There was real anger in Zevran’s voice.

Alistair sat back and distracted himself for a bit by picturing Zevran calling Harper an amateur.

Zevran wrestled the dead guard out of his shirt and handed it up to Alistair. “I am sorry, but we will have to retrieve your armor when we reduce this place to rubble. I have not found it and we should not linger.”

Several times on their way out they passed bodies propped in corners, and once Zevran had to go ahead and make another, but the entire thing happened in silence save for Alistair’s shuffling footsteps. Alistair’s last gasp of nervous energy lasted exactly until they were standing on the street breathing free air, and then but for Zevran’s shoulder he would have collapsed at Sten’s feet.

Everything was a bit blurry after that, but there was Harper clinging to him and crying, which was unnatural, and Sten hauling him home like a sack of potatoes, and being stripped and washed and healed and bundled into bed. He wanted Zevran, but Zevran was nowhere to be seen. Then his head hit the pillow and that was the end of that.

*

When he woke in the morning, most of the crew was already gone. A note on his blanket, in Harper’s looping scrawl, informed him that they’d gone to see what was happening in the alienage, and he was to rest, and sorry, but she was pretty sure Eamon had plans for him as well. 

Left behind. He let his head fall back on the pillows. Right, of course, he had prince things to do.

First to knock at the door was Wynne. “Good morning! I’ve brought you breakfast! Feeling rested?”

“Too rested! Everyone left without me?”

“Yes. Most of them off to the alienage to investigate, though Leliana has gone to the Chantry on behalf of that poor templar in Howe’s dungeons. I expect she will be back a bit sooner than the others.”

“And you?” Alistair asked.

“We wanted to keep an eye on you. I welcome the chance to rest. The Arl has several works in his library that I’ve not had a chance to read.” She set down Alistair’s breakfast tray on the bedside table and held up the book she’d been carrying under it. Alistair squinted at the cover.

“You’re going to read romance novels while the fate of Ferelden hangs in the balance? I always knew you were secretly a terribly frivolous woman.”

“Read romance novels and make use of the Arl’s larder, yes.” Wynne smiled and snitched a quail egg off of Alistair’s tray. “That, and help the future king recover from his own recklessness.”

Old Alistair would have shrugged that off, he knew. But New Alistair decided that he didn’t need to, and what was more, it might be best not to.

“I wasn’t reckless.”

“Hmm?” Wynne looked up, surprised. “Horsefeathers, young man! You volunteered yourself to be thrown in prison, days before the Landsmeet!”

“It wasn’t exactly my original plan, either. But if you had a better idea that didn’t involve all of us ending up in cells or dead, I didn’t hear it. Not everything I do is stupid.”

There was a long pause as Wynne studied him, and he was starting to get nervous. 

“No, I did not have a better plan. And I would never call you stupid, merely very...young. But you are growing up after all. Very well, I stand corrected and apologise. Thank you for your sacrifice.”

“Oh. Well, alright then.”

“Good. Now, I believe the Arl has made plans to show you around later today, so if anything needs further healing, we’d best find out now. Up with you!”

Alistair did as he was told, cursing the encompassing blankets. “So uh...Zevran went with Harper?”

“To the alienage? Certainly. He looked very serious for a pleasant change. Perhaps the plight of the elves strikes closer to home for him.”

*

Alistair was brushed and cleaned and stuffed into something with too many buttons and too little armor by the time Eamon’s majordomo came around to fetch him.

“Alistair, good.” Eamon was waiting for him in the receiving room. “I’ve been able to persuade Bann Harvren and his nephews to come see us. The bann is a rural one, but it accounts for a great deal of Denerim’s breadbasket, and Harvren is respected for his wisdom and loyalty to tradition. If we can impress him, it will serve us well.” Without waiting for a response, he nodded to the majordomo. “Escort them in.”

Bann Harvren looked old enough to have _made up_ the traditions. Liver-spotted and bent with age, but still wiry with muscle. His nephews, both old enough to be Alistair’s father, flanked him like bodyguards.

Harvren marched up to Alistair and tapped his leg with his cane. “A Theirin bastard, eh? Just like you to keep this stashed away all these years, Eamon you old weasel.” 

“And a pleasure to meet you, too, your lordship,” Alistair said. Eamon sent him a quelling glance.

“I was tasked with protecting the boy,” Eamon said. “Naturally, we hoped that his blood would never be relevant, that Cailan would secure the succession. I did not wish to cast aspersions on Maric without reason.”

Harvren snorted. “Oh, aye, because it’d be such a great shock that Maric liked the ladies. And what about Anora, then? Made a sensible queen, that one.”

“Anora was a capable administrator for Cailan’s lands, but she has not a drop of royal blood,” Eamon replied. “We did not fight the Orlesians all those years just to lose our royal line in a single generation. Not when there’s a surviving son of the blood.”

Alistair was tired. Tired of Eamon talking over him, tired of the man who had, nominally, raised him having nothing better to say of him than that he had the right father. 

_A king must put his own convictions first, and not wait to be told what he believes._ That was what Zevran had said.

“_Excuse_ me,” he said. “Yes, my father was Maric Theirin, but that’s not why you should support me at the Landsmeet.”

Eamon’s eyes bugged slightly, which was nice. Bann Harvren raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“My blood only matters if it unites Ferelden. Because a united Ferelden is the only Ferelden that will survive this Blight, and as both a Theirin _and a Warden_, that is what I want. I don’t care a whit whether Anora’s blood is noble, either. What I care for is that it’s Mac Tir. I won’t stand for Loghain or his supporters keeping power over this country.”

“Alistair--” Eamon began, but Harvren thumped him on the arm with his cane. 

“Let the boy speak.”

Alistair took a deep breath, and went on. “Loghain claims that I am a traitor, because I divide the country against him when the Blight threatens us all. But he was a traitor twice over long before I was an issue. He left my brother Cailan and the Wardens to _die_. I was there--I lit the signal fire. 

“He tried to have Eamon killed. He tried to have _me_ killed. He had me thrown in prison. He claims that you have to support him to defeat the Blight, but his actions have weakened us and allowed the Blight to spread. I would be a traitor if I didn’t oppose him.”

It felt right. Right now, this was what he needed to be doing. Right now, he could let tomorrow worry about itself. Right now, he believed what he was saying.

“Loghain has spent the last months plotting and playing politics, but I’ve been fighting the Blight. Here he was, hiding in Denerim, while I killed darkspawn. I will see the Blight ended, and I will see Loghain _dead_ before I let him rule Ferelden, and if I must be king to do these things, then I will be the best king I can be.”

Bann Harvren sat back.

“Your Highness. I’ll allow, I thought you were just some puppet with the right color eyes that Eamon had dug up--don’t have a tizzy, you old fox. But you’ve got Maric’s fire, and I see him in your face clear as day. I believe you, and what’s more, if you want Loghain dead, I won’t be the fool that stands in your way.”

Alistair felt lighter. “Thank you.”

“Then can we expect your support at the Landsmeet?” asked Eamon.

“Yes, yes, I said what I said. Come on, boys. We’ve got some arrangements to make.”

One of the “boys” reached out to help Harvren up, and got thumped for his trouble. They left, leaving Eamon and Alistair alone.

“Well,” said Eamon. “Alright, then.”

Alistair tugged his doublet straight and made sure of his hair.

“Now then, was there anyone else you wanted me to meet?”


	5. The Spaces Between

Wynne wouldn’t let Alistair go out alone. He tried pointing out that he was a prince now and she couldn’t tell him what to do. She was unimpressed. She was of course, also right--he’d been thrown in prison all of one day before, and really couldn’t afford to go charging around on his own now. But it was well after dinner, and he’d considered throwing caution to the wind many times, before the others came back.

He was pacing in the front hall when the massive doors flew open under Sten’s hand, and the rest of their companions marched in behind. Sten was blistered and red all along one side of his face and one of Zevran’s hands was wrapped in wet cloth. Harper’s left sleeve was half burned off, and her expression was venomous.

“You’re burned!” Alistair exclaimed. “What happened?”

“Mages,” Leliana answered.

“Bas saarebas,” Sten spat.

“What, in the alienage?” Alistair asked.

“Mhm,” Harper said, heading straight for the pitcher of water kept on a side table. “Gets better though--Tevinter mages.”

“Tevinter!” Alistair yelped.

“Selling elves into slavery right out of the alienage--with Loghain’s approval.”

“Surely not!” a woman exclaimed behind him. Alistair turned to see Anora on the stairs.

“Surely yes, Your Majesty,” Harper snapped. “And did you know about that?”

“No! I struggle to believe that even in his current madness my father would do such a thing.”

“Guess the money for a coup has to come from somewhere,” Harper said, dripping bitterness. “Alright then, easier question. Did you know that people are living in abject, life-threatening poverty not a twenty minute walk from your fancy palace? The entire alienage? You ever been there? Ever seen it?”

“That would hardly be appropriate! I would never disrupt so many lives by intruding. If you believe I could raise the entire alienage from poverty simply by willing it, then you grossly overestimate my reach.”

“Did you _try_? No, never mind. Tell me another thing, Loghain’s daughter.” Wynne, newly arrived, put a restraining hand on Harper’s shoulder, but she shrugged it off. “When we were in Howe’s palace yesterday, all facing the same threat of death or imprisonment, who stepped up to save us? Cailan’s wife, or his brother?”

“We have discussed this!” Anora snapped. “It was understood! I may be in danger of death or disappearance, if--”

“Are you saying that Alistair wasn’t?” Harper was face to face with Anora now, or rather face to neck, eyes sparking.

“I have no idea--”

“You do! If even his beloved daughter is in danger from Loghain, then Alistair had no chance of making it out alive. He could have been dead before we could get him back. He knew that, and he stepped up anyway. _He_ stepped up.”

Anora blinked down at Harper, either not sure what to say next or dazed by being addressed so harshly, and Harper was more than happy to go on.

“Now. I’ve spent the day cleaning up messes that either existed while you held power or are the actions of your father since you lost it, and I don’t want to hear a thing about how you’re the superior choice right now, _Your Majesty_. Arrest me for insolence if you can figure out how. I’m going to get out of my nice new robes, which are ruined because your daddy let Tevinter mages into Ferelden.”

Harper turned on her heel, passing a visibly horrified Eamon on her way out. Eamon hastened to Anora, speaking quietly to her as he led her away. 

Alistair hadn’t said a thing. He probably should have, he thought. It was partly an argument about him, after all. But honestly, the larger part of him still thought that Anora was unquestionably better trained, more qualified, and more experienced than he was. Not to mention that she actually wanted to rule, which probably helped.

But Harper hadn’t been wrong, either, had she?

Things weren’t going to get less confusing soon.

*

Zevran was gone. Alistair headed to his own room hoping to find him, but he wasn’t there, and neither was the gear he’d left when he’d stayed the night. 

After many wrong turns and accosting no less than three visibly discomfited servants for directions, he found his way to the baths, but no Zevran there, either. Sten and Oghren were, and Zevran had been minutes before, but neither had known or cared where he was going. Oghren did give Alistair an extremely disturbing leer when he asked, though.

He upset even more servants trying to find Zevran’s room, which was in the servants’ quarters. He watched their backs stiffen as he appeared, and thought uncomfortably of Anora’s comment about intruding in the alienage. Was that going to be him? Would he be forever cut off from sitting in the tavern, just being normal people? Would he spend the rest of his life with people jumping to attention as he appeared? Fanfares and official meetings?

All he’d wanted, really, was to belong. But even his sister had taken one look at him as he was now, and marked him as too high above her to belong with her. Maybe it had always been too late.

When he finally found Zevran’s room, his first reaction was hot anger. Zevran’s room wasn’t half the size of his own--it wasn’t one sixth the size of his own. Twelve of this dank little closet of a “room” could have fit in Alistair’s room with space to spare. The low cot had a worn out straw tick and one scratchy blanket. The only other furnishings were an upturned crate next to the bed, a reed light, and a bucket.

Zevran’s things were there, but no Zevran. He waited for a bit, lying on the too-small bed with his arm thrown over his face, and then got up, kicked the wall, and set about finding his way to the dining hall.

When he got there, Harper was eating alone. She was wearing an older robe, much patched and straining to cover her ample frame.

“Alistair!” she smiled and waved him over. “Come on, sit. They’ve brought me enough food for an army, and everyone else has abandoned me.”

He sat, reaching over for a roll.

“Well, you look more cheerful,” he said. “You were really on fire earlier.” He winced as soon as he said it, but Harper burst out laughing.

“Literally, eh? Oh, yes, I’m still pissed. You would be too if you’d seen that place. No one should live like that. But you know me. I’m a simple girl, I like a hot bath and a good feed.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t with you.”

“Don’t be. You look much better and it goes a long way to helping me not burn this place down.”

Alistair laughed. For a bit, there was companionable silence as they both stuffed food in their mouths.

“You know, it’s interesting,” she said, swallowing a massive mouthful of stewed rutabaga and lamb. “Everybody was in a furor when they took you prisoner. I was ready to chew through stone. But Zevran! Oh, I thought when I went to sleep I might just not wake up, and if I were Ser Cauthrien I would stay awake forever.”

Alistair laughed. “If she stays awake, we’ll get her anyway.”

Harper smiled, and then let the smile fall away. “What I’m saying, Ali-boy, is that he took your capture very personally.”

Alistair could feel his face flame up. “Well, you know. Everyone falls for my irresistible charm. That was my plan for the Archdemon, did you know? Just flutter my eyelashes and ask him to please climb back down a hole. It’s foolproof!”

“Eyelashes like that? We can’t fail.” Harper grinned, but only for a second. “But Alistair… look, I want you happy, and I _need_ you focused. Like Zevran wasn’t today. I even tried to leave him here, but he wouldn’t have it.”

He was pretty sure he was red from the roots of his hair to his neck now. “I don’t...uh...I’m sure whatever you’re implying…”

“You know what I mean and you know I love you both. But it’d be real great if you could figure it out.”

Alistair squeezed his eyes shut before looking back at her.

“I’m trying,” he said. “I’m just...trying.”

He rather thought he _had_ figured it out. But now, it was becoming clear that wherever he was, Zevran was not.

Harper stood up and clapped him on the shoulder. “I have confidence in you. Now then, gonna go talk to Eamon about where we can find all these various nobles we need votes from. Politics! Save the world with politics!” She snorted, and strode out of the room without a backwards glance.

Alistair sat, the last chunk of apple forgotten in his hand, and stared at the joinery of the stone wall. Finally, he got up, and set out to find Zevran’s room again.

It only took one round of questioning and two wrong turns this time. Zevran was sitting on his narrow bed, putting a new strap on a buckle by the light of a lamp he’d probably ‘borrowed’. He looked up and smiled brightly. A little _too_ bright. Not the smile he made without thinking, but the one to disarm. Alistair wondered, with a little twist in his stomach, why he needed disarming.

“Found you!” he said, with a little false cheer of his own. “I was worried about your hand. Alright, now?” He reached out, and Zevran let him take the hand to examine it, but the touch didn’t still the twisting of Alistair’s gut.

“Perfectly well, thank you. Wynne takes good care of us all.” He withdrew the hand, and there was nothing lingering about it.

Alistair dared to sit next to Zevran, though the cot creaked under their combined weight.

He cleared his throat. “I ah...I may have missed you today. Worried about you.” He thought he felt Zevran soften a bit against his side.

“There was no cause to worry about me, I assure you. Harper had the situation well in hand.” Zevran smiled at him, this time a little softer. Alistair took courage from it, and turned towards Zevran, reaching for his cheek.

“Well, I worried anyway, so there.” He leaned in, eyes on Zevran’s face, heart racing, until his lips brushed against Zevran’s.

But Zevran’s lips didn’t answer his. After a second, Zevran turned his face, pulling away from Alistair’s hand.

“I am sorry, but...no. No. I mean no offense, I simply...no.”

Alistair drew back, stung. “Is something wrong? Did I do something?”

“No! No, I...do not wish to talk about it.” Zevran was avoiding his eyes. The cold sickness was starting to fill Alistair’s belly again, seeping outward.

“Please, if I’ve done something wrong--”

“Enough!” Zevran snapped. “I have said I do not wish to talk about it! Can you not understand that?!”

Alistair’s eyes stung. “I understand you just fine, I just--”

“There are other things besides me for you to focus on, I am certain! Do--do those!”

Silently, Alistair got up, and left. He didn’t look back when the door clicked shut behind him, and he didn’t cry, because kings-to-be don’t cry in front of servants.

But there were no servants in his room, and his pillow wouldn’t tell.

*

Alistair made no impassioned speeches the next day. He tried to find the fire he’d felt with Bann Harvren, and he thought he pretended alright, but it wasn’t the same. Face after face passed in front of him-- the imprisoned templar’s sister, Bann Something, Arl Wolf or Rolf or...he’d have to learn eventually. 

Harper did a lot of the talking, and gave him more than a few quiet looks. He couldn’t tell if they were worried or annoyed. She had every right to be annoyed. This was his place, these negotiations were for his throne, and all he could really think about was the emptiness inside.

Finally, the last appointment was done, the last round of bowing and mutual assurances of respect and exhausting smiling was over, and Alistair was sitting in the dining hall again, stuffing stew into his mouth without tasting it at all. Leliana and Morrigan were teasing Sten further down the table, Oghren was asleep with his face nearly in his plate, and Harper was across from him, eating steadily and silently. Zevran was...elsewhere. Clearly, where was none of Alistair’s business.

Across the table, Harper put down her clay beaker with a thud. “Well!” she exclaimed, suddenly bright and businesslike. “That was a day, for sure. Now for shopping.”

Alistair’s mind stumbled at the sharp turn. “Shopping?”

“Well, I’m not going to fight in this! Great for the cleavage, sure, but it’ll split at the seams if I flex. Turns out I got muscles under the chub now and this thing can’t handle both. So you and Zevran are going to take me shopping.”

“Shopping?” Leliana came to attention down the table. Morrigan sneered.

“Harper, you really don’t have to...I’m not sure he wants…” Alistair sighed. “I think he’s probably avoiding me.”

“Yup! That’s why I’m doing it. Alright, Leliana, get ready, you’re in!”

Harper found Zevran by the simple expedient of telling the hovering steward to find him. Which definitely should have occured to Alistair before. 

Zevran came trotting into the entrance hall shortly after the rest of them, with his usual cheerful smile. Dirty dishes had been left to the servants (Alistair didn’t mind that part of being Important), money had been fetched, and the group set off, all in high spirits. 

Well. The appearance of it, anyway. Harper and Leliana trotted ahead, heads together, gleeful discussions about color and complexion drifting back. Zevran and Alistair walked behind, keeping pace in silence. Alistair was inclined to feel rather venomous about Harper’s blunt approach to “fixing” things. Better that than more stewing on what he could have done wrong.

“Alistair,” Zevran said. Alistair looked up, but nothing else was forthcoming at first. Finally, “I...I feel that I really must apologize. I do not know what to say, but I feel I owe it to you to try.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Alistair muttered.

“On the contrary! I owe you more than I can ever repay.”

“Is that why you kissed me? Because you owed me? Because I don’t need--”

“No! No. I kissed you because I wished it, just as I have said. It is just...that…I am acting like a child, I realize. Let me try to explain.”

Alistair waved a hand for him to go on.

“An assassin...must learn to forget about sentiment. It is dangerous. You take your pleasures where you can, when life is good. To expect anything more would be reckless.”

Alistair had a sudden burst of realization. “Rinna…”

He thought perhaps Zevran flinched, ever so slightly.

“I had thought,” Zevran said, and trailed off. “Truthfully, I do not know what I thought. You are a very beautiful man--”

“Maker! No I am not!” Alistair thought his ears would catch fire.

“You truly do not know. It is irresistibly charming. It would not be difficult to dismiss attraction as that alone. But when you were captured...I was so greatly…_angry_. No, I do not have the word--”

“Boys!” Harper called back. “This is the place.”

“Tch!” Zevran exclaimed. “Later.”

Alistair was left alone in the street, understanding both more and less than he’d thought he’d known before. Sighing, he followed the others into the shop.

Harper had led them to a tailor’s shop. Several gorgeous dresses and a fur-draped man’s tunic and pants hung in the front of the shop on wooden stands. A man, presumably the tailor, rose from his work to greet them.

“Leli, Alistair, Zev, this is Eldwyn. Eldwyn, Arl Eamon’s steward sent us to you. I need new robes, and quickly.”

Eldwyn smiled broadly. “A friend of Master Darnell’s is a friend of mine. What can I do for you?”

The conversation quickly devolved into fabrics and measurements and darts and pleats and how to set the sleeves for freedom of movement, and Alistair had nothing to do but awkwardly stand around. He kept looking at Zevran, who gave him a strange sort of half-smile back, but the shop was far too small for private conversations, so he just shifted from foot to foot and waited.

“Now this handsome young man, he could do with a bit of tailoring himself!” Alistair came into focus to realize that the Eldwyn was standing in front of him, looking him up and down with one eye closed.

“Sorry?”

“Never be sorry for those shoulders!” Eldwyn said, winking. Leliana giggled, and Harper snorted. “Do you know, I think I have something…” he trailed off, turning towards the stairs at the side of the shop. His voice came down the stairs as he went. “Just a moment, please! I have an order that never got picked up.” Alistair looked at Zevran, bewildered, but Zevran just raised an eyebrow and shrugged. Leliana clapped her hands excitedly.

In a moment, Eldwyn was trotting back down, something heavy and dark green draped over his arm.

“Off with this!” Suiting actions to words, he began to wrestle Alistair out of the stiff jerkin Eamon had made him wear. Bemused, Alistair shrugged it off and let Eldwyn stuff him into the doublet he’d brought down. The fur mantle was apparently a separate piece, and went on last.

“Perfect!” said Eldwyn, pulling Alistair to the long mirror.

Alistair stared, and someone who wasn’t quite Alistair stared back at him. The mantle emphasized his shoulders and flared upwards, framing his neck and jawline. Down the chest there were bands of felt applique--traditional Fereldan geometric designs, beautifully worked. The sleeves fit perfectly, with no binding of the armpits. The cut snugged closely around his waist, flaring over his hips. It was far finer than anything he’d ever worn before.

“I look...like an absolute toff.”

“You look like a king, Alistair,” Harper replied, voice hushed.

Alistair’s eyes darted to Zevran, but while Zevran was looking at him, his eyes were most definitely not focused on his face.

“How much?” Harper asked. 

Eldwyn quoted a frankly horrifying price.

“We’ll take it,” she said. 

Alistair aspirated his own spit and began coughing violently. “_What?_”

“Hush, Ali-boy. We’re getting it.”

*

After a bit of negotiation over the last details of Harper’s outfit and matching pants and shirt for Alistair’s, they left Eldwyn and headed back to Eamon’s. A block or so down, though, a cart full of baled wool had crashed into a wagon full of onions and jackknife, blocking the entirety of the narrow street. The wreckage had accumulated an angry hand-cart driver, half the neighborhood, a guardsman completely failing to restore order, and half a dozen laughing street boys.

“This way,” Harper shouted over the noise, and turned down the alley that opened up to their right. As they moved away from the noise, she added, “It’s got to reconnect eventually, right?”

The alley opened up a few yards on, but bare steps before they reached it, Zevran suddenly threw his arm across Alistair’s chest.

“Wait! Something--” Zevran stopped, and then whirled. 

Alistair glanced back, and froze. Two men he definitely hadn’t seen before were standing a few feet inside the alley, aiming bows at them.

“Brasca,” Zevran hissed.

Harper had seen the men now, too. “What the fuck--” She stopped as Zevran pushed past her and into the open space at the other end of the alley.

“What do you want?” he shouted.

“Ah, Zevran,” another Antivan voice replied. “Cautious as ever.” As Alistair followed Zevran out of the alley, a man stepped out from behind a wall, looking down on them from an elevated back stoop.

“And so here is the mighty Grey Warden at long last. The Crows send their greetings, once again.” The man was looking at Alistair, and it took him a minute to realize that he really did look like he must be the leader, right now. 

“Same fucking trick,” Harper muttered. “They used the same trick!”

Zevran sidestepped, putting himself between Alistair and the man above..

“So they sent you, Taliesen,” Zevran said. “Or did you volunteer for the job?”

_Taliesen_. Alistair’s stomach dropped.

“I volunteered, of course!” Taliesen replied. “When I heard the great Zevran had gone rogue, I simply had to see it for myself.” 

“Is that so? Well, here I am, in the flesh.” Zevran spread his arms, hands empty and open.

“Zevran,” Harper hissed, “what--”

“You can return with me, Zevran.” Taliesen’s voice had changed--gentler, persuasive. “I know why you did this, and I don’t blame you.”

Zevran shifted tensely.

“It’s not too late. Come back, and we’ll make up a story. Anyone can make a mistake.”

A bubble of silence grew, touching Alistair with freezing fingers. What if--would he really go back--

“I have not made a mistake,” Zevran said.

Alistair breathed again.

“What?” Taliesen’s voice was incredulous. “This whole thing has just been some--some foolish tantrum--”

“I have not made a mistake,” Zevran repeated, “and I am not going back.”

“You’ve gone soft in the head! The Crows will make you pray for death, you fool!”

“They’ll have to get through me, then,” Alistair said.

“Us,” Harper said.

Taliesen laughed. “That was the plan, yes.”

“I am sorry, my old friend, but the answer is no,” said Zevran. “You should have stayed in Antiva.”

“Zevran, don’t do this.” Taliesen said it softly this time, pitched for Zevran's ears.

“Taliesen. I regret that it was you who came.” Zevran drew his dagger. “Harper, bows?”

At that cue, Harper whirled and flung a fireball at the archers behind them. The shouts covered the satisfying snap of bowstrings parting, but Alistair knew that it was there. Taliesen bellowed at his men to attack, and Alistair drew his sword. 

He had no shield. They were not totally unprepared to defend themselves, of course, not with everything that had happened, but this was supposed to have been a shopping trip! He sprinted for the men behind them, before they could draw fresh weapons. Leliana beat him to the first of them.

Taliesen had brought six men. Maybe even skilled men. It didn’t matter against the four of them. The fight was over in less than two minutes, clean, all dead except for Taliesen.

Taliesen was on one knee, bleeding heavily from a wound in his thigh. Zevran’s dagger was leveled at his throat. Alistair climbed the stairs and leveled his sword at Taliesen. A slight tremor was rippling through Zevran’s blade.

“You don’t have to do this, Zevran,” Alistair murmured. Zevran didn’t look up.

“Harper,” Alistair called. “We could conscript him?”

“If he’ll swear, I guess” she said, climbing the stairs herself. Leliana stood on the cobblestones, watching them all with worried eyes.

“You can join the Wardens,” Harper said. “Past crimes don’t matter there. You see that we’re--”

Taliesen spat. “Fools. Stuff your Wardens. The Crows would find me anywhere. They will find you. Just kill me.”

“Well fuck you anyway,” Harper snapped.

Alistair watched that little tremor ripple down Zevran’s blade again.

“Zev...you don’t have to do it. I’ll--”

“Cowards,” Taliesen laughed, and then lunged forward.

Before Alistair could bring up his blade, Zevran’s flicked through Taliesen’s throat. Taliesen fell to the ground with a bubbling wheeze, hands flying to his throat. 

Zevran stared for a second, and then turned and walked back towards the alley. His face was blank, expressionless.

“Maker take it, now there’s blood all over my robes,” Harper grumbled. “Leli, help me with this guy.”

Alistair followed Zevran, and caught him up in the alley. Zevran was leaning against one wall, staring at the wall opposite. Alistair stood in front of him, itching to touch him, no idea what to do.

Zevran let his head fall back against the wall. “And there it is,” he said. “Taliesen is dead. And I am free of the Crows.”

“Are you really?”

Zevran shrugged slightly. “They will assume that I am dead along with Taliesen. So long as I do not make my presence known to them, they will not seek me out.”

“And are you alright? About...Taliesen?”

Zevran finally focused on Alistair.

“Truly, I do not know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Had a round of really crappy health. I hope you're all still with me!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so so much to my sweet and always insightful beta, Dafan7711, for all you do!


End file.
